<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Still Remains The Most Beautiful Thing by J_Baillier</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759972">Still Remains The Most Beautiful Thing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier'>J_Baillier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thermocline [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Relationships, Angst, Asexuality, Consent is Sexy, Developing Relationship, Five Oceans Watson in love, M/M, Marine archaeology, Medical Conditions, Oxford, POV John Watson, Plans For The Future, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:41:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,574</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Malta, things are up in the air when it comes to Sherlock and John's relationship. Perhaps some time spent together in Oxford might help shape their future?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Lestrade &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thermocline [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>406</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Welcome to Oxford</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>[<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011148">an index and guide to all my Sherlock stories</a>]</p><p>It appears that many readers were as reluctant as I to leave behind these besotted nautical dunces. This two-chapter sequel will give us a glimpse into what comes next as Sherlock rebuilds his life after his ex nearly ruined it, and John tries to shift his thinking so that he could build a relationship that might last longer than just a few rounds of horizontal tango.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All John knows is that Sherlock lives in a two-bedroom flat on Morrell Avenue. He hadn't given John the specific address, just said he'd meet him at the train station. When the 10:42 from London had been delayed for forty minutes at Reading because of what the train driver had announced as an <em>incident with an unauthorised person on the line</em>. John knows this to be British Rail speak for a suicidal jumper. He had texted Sherlock that he'd be late, and the response had been quick and short: <em>'I am already at the station and will wait, regardless'</em>.</p><p>Relief had washed over John, as well as confusion as he realised that a small part of him had feared Sherlock wouldn't be there, after all. Feared that he might regret extending the invitation. Things between them are still so new and brittle. Is Sherlock as excited about John's arrival as John is to see him? Is that why he'd gone to the station so early?</p><p>When John climbs out of the carriage with his worn duffel bag, a familiar figure is standing by the station attendant's booth, hands in the pockets of a long, handsome coat with the collar turned up for warmth in the wind. He's scanning the sparse burst of passengers unloading onto the platform, somehow looking aloof and indifferent <em>and</em>antsy and anxious at the same time — as though fearing John wouldn't show up, after all.</p><p>John shakes his head and adopts a determined stride towards his lover.They haven't seen each other — Skype and phone calls and emails just aren't the same — in two months. After two weeks of bliss on Malta, Sherlock had returned home, and the next month had been busy as he re-established control over the Centre and its finances and fended off reporters desperate for a comment from the man who had brought James Moriarty's business empire down. Moriarty himself had left the country, or so Sherlock had told John.</p><p>On Malta, John had so much time on his hands that missing Sherlock became a morbid pastime. Thankfully, an old diving instructor friend working in the Philippines had managed to coax him to be the liveaboard director of two luxury liveaboard trips around the region. The diving had been amazing on pristine reefs, and John had put on a few extra pounds from the fantastic food, and the groups he'd been guiding and instructing had been great, but when he had retreated to his cabin in the evenings, he'd felt like he was in the wrong place. Things with Sherlock were so new, so… delicate, and John worried tremendously about the man's safety and how he was coping alone. He would have preferred to follow Sherlock to England, to make sure he'd be alright under the stress of the aftermath of the now very public affair he'd had with Moriarty. The liveaboard yacht had WiFi, but not enough bandwith for video or even audio calls, so they had mostly exchanged emails and iMessages. Sherlock kept assuring him he was doing alright, and John didn't want to push him to be more open than he felt comfortable at the time.</p><p>It had been Sherlock who had prompted him to take the Philippines gig. John had received the call two days before Sherlock was due to leave Malta. <em>"As much as I am tempted to bring you back with me, I need to avoid distractions for a while," </em>Sherlock had explained, stroking an idle finger up John's bicep. "<em>I don't want you involved in any of the sordid business with James. I need you to be… free of all that. For me.</em>"</p><p>John had hated the thought of being apart, but he understood what Sherlock meant. They weren't in a stage in their relationship to discuss permanent arrangements.On Malta, they had shared a bed every night, finding a comfortable togetherness without pressure for more. The more time they spent together, the braver and more open Sherlock seemed to become about enjoying their physical proximity as well their emotional closeness. It was still very push-and-pull, though; one step forward, then two steps back. John had learned to sense when his new partner became hesitant and withdrawn. As much as John wanted to kiss everything better, to erase with his affection all of what the bastard had done to Sherlock, he knew it wasn't that simple.</p><p>They haven't kissed. Not once. He doesn't know if Sherlock likes it. Somehow, asking about it would have felt like putting pressure on him.</p><p>"Hi," John beams at him now, dropping his bag on the concrete before opening his arms.</p><p>"Hello," rasps a familiar baritone, and Sherlock wastes no time in wrapping his arms around John. "Damned train services," he mutters into John's neck.</p><p>To John, his tone sounds almost surprised — as though he has to convince himself the man in his arms is quite real.They hug at length; long enough that all the other travellers have left the platform by the time they extricate. </p><p>"Welcome to Oxford," Sherlock says, and his now warm, indulgent tone makes John believe he really is that — most welcome. "We should get a taxi; the distance is about two kilometres."</p><p>John wouldn't mind walking if it weren't for his bag. Sherlock hails them a cab, and the drive is spent mostly in silence. John doesn't know the city; as the taxi drives eastwards on the High Street, his eye is caught by the mix of ground-floor retail shops, interspersed with the architecture of the university's various colleges.</p><p>When they cross the river over an old stone bridge, Sherlock is looking out the window. Leaning forward momentarily, John catches a glimpse of a small, careful smile Sherlock seems unable to suppress. John nudges his thigh which his knuckles, and that smile blooms into something more open as Sherlock turns his head to face him.</p><p>"How've you been?" John asks quietly.</p><p>"It's been… quite exhausting. Many things have certainly changed for the better, though."</p><p>The cab pulls up at a row of semi-detached houses lining the edge of Oxford's South Park. Sherlock slips out of the cab before any negotiations about who's going to cover the cost are made. John shrugs, pays the cabbie, and clambers out to find Sherlock standing on the pavement with his duffel bag. They're in front of a white building with red bricks decorating the doorways.</p><p>Once inside 221b Morrell Avenue, Sherlock flits about in the short hallway while John takes off his shoes as instructed. </p><p>"I like being able to walk around barefoot," Sherlock explains, a bit sheepishly. "I'll just––" He grabs John's bag and deposits it somewhere — maybe the guest bedroom.</p><p>John didn't want to assume he'd be sharing Sherlock's bed, though he rather hoped that would be the case. This is Sherlock's life and world and home; maybe he isn't quite comfortable letting John all the way into his inner sanctum just yet. <em>It </em><em>will </em><em>be fine either way</em>. Sherlock just needs to tell him what he wants.</p><p>"Lots of books. I'm not surprised," John smiles as he enters the sitting room.</p><p>Sherlock blinks in that suddenly-blinded-by-torch-owl kind of way he does when something catches him off guard, and he grabs a few of the books piled on the floor next to the pot of an obviously neglected ficus tree. "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." The books are then dropped onto a worn leather sofa in front of a red brick fireplace.</p><p>"Oh, no, no, that's not what I meant," John says, too little and too late. He suddenly feels very self-conscious and rotten; clearly, Sherlock is sensitive about his home. "I mean, I like books." <em>I'm an idiot</em>.</p><p>"Tea? Of <em>course</em>, we'll need tea, although I wonder if I remembered to buy––" Sherlock mutters, disappearing into the next room.</p><p>John, bemused by such fussing, follows him into what turns out to be a small kitchen. He leans on the windowsill to look out into a small back garden completely overgrown with bramble and ivy. The neighbour's back gardens are, in contrast, meticulously looked after with some of the rose trellises and flower baskets still carrying wilted blooms. <em>October winds haven't killed everything off yet, then</em>. John can't say he misses the climate, but there is something about seeing the parkland stretching out behind the houses that makes nostalgia swell up in him. <em>Can take a man out of England but not England out of a man.</em></p><p>Sherlock fills a kettle, puts it on the hob. John notices he doesn't appear to have an electric one, which fits the fact that the whole flat seems to represent the kind of old-world charm one might expect from an Oxford professor. The kitchen is utilitarian, seems rarely used. Not many spices on the rack, and when Sherlock opens the fridge to frown at the contents, John spots little more than the light inside. John knows what it’s like to live mostly on takeaway and tea, and it seems Sherlock is no stranger to that lifestyle.</p><p>"I did <em>go </em>to the store, but I must have been distracted." Sherlock slams the fridge door and opens a cupboard. "Damned biscuits." He takes out a green Waitrose tin, sticks his nose into it. "It appears we really do have none." He sounds genuinely apologetic as he shoves the tin back, closes the cupboard and turns to lean his bottom against it, watching John expectantly.</p><p>Feeling like he has inadvertently disturbed the peace in the house with some imaginary demand for a treat with his tea, John wanders back into the living room to have a more thorough look around.</p><p>There is no television; instead, the copious amounts of books he'd made note of upon entry are stacked and strewn about, shoved into every nook and cranny. The empty slots above them on bookcases are filled with old maps and printouts of graphs and sonar maps. The furniture is old but well-made and cared for, mostly dark wood and leather. There are no framed photographs, just a few paintings on the walls of maritime scenes. Squeezed in among the books are strange bric-a-brac such as a taxidermy bat, a human skull, fossils, a few antique-looking daggers and knives jutting up from where they have been stabbed into side tables and shelves, and a small antique globe. The place smells a little bit of dust and old papers with a faint undertone of tea and cigarettes.</p><p>After a few minutes of looking around the room, John is startled when Sherlock clears his throat in the doorway. God knows how long he's been watching John scrutinise his things and by extension, his life. John puts the stuffed bat he'd picked up back on the shelf. He feels as though he's entered a small shop where the attendant is watching him like a hawk, unsure of whether he'll buy something or leave disappointed.</p><p>The fingers of Sherlock's right hand are clasping his left wrist hard and his form is tense, nervous. "I'm sorry about the biscuits. I… the skull was an heirloom, and the rest is––" </p><p>"Sherlock," John interrupts him, "I'm not here to judge your stuffed bats or your biscuitlessness. I'm here because I <em>missed you</em>."</p><p>The kettle whistles in the kitchen, startling them both.</p><p><br/>
_____________</p><p> </p><p>John's visit had come about on short notice, because there's going to be a meeting in London at the BBC headquarters in four days about a potential new documentary project. Greg's three-part series is in post-production but the plan is to broadcast it in the new year; Greg had mentioned in his email that higher-ups who had seen the material were very pleased. Sherlock had told John over Skype that he isn't keen on being on television again anytime soon. Sherlock had been quite honest in that the possibility of working with John again was the only draw in any potential BBC collaboration.</p><p>"<em>Perhaps you might attend the meeting in person — all expenses will be covered by the BBC, I made sure of that. And maybe you might consider combining that with coming to Oxford––</em>" Sherlock had explained on Skype.</p><p>John had said yes before letting him finish the sentence.</p><p>They haven’t really even discussed the making of plans, or the future. Things just <em>are</em>, in the wake of Moriarty. Sherlock lives in Oxford, John's got his flat on Malta. Everything feels unsure, expectant. They must both be aware that this visit will be a litmus test on whether they still feel the way they did when Sherlock was preparing to leave — they'd both had a hard time saying goodbye at Luqa airport. John had even slipped his passport into his pocket as he dropped him off for his flight, hoping for the very unlikely event that Sherlock might crack and ask him to follow him back to England.</p><p>John's feelings haven't changed, and seeing Sherlock standing on that train platform, waiting for him was… if Sherlock had asked him to leave Malta forever in that moment, John wouldn't have hesitated to say yes. But he needs to be careful. This is Sherlock's home, Sherlock's life, and he can't just start carving himself a piece of it without permission.</p><p>"English breakfast or Assam?" Sherlock asks.</p><p>"Whichever you like best."</p><p>"But you must have a preference."</p><p>"Must I?" John smirks. "Maybe my preference is to watch you enjoy yourself."</p><p>Sherlock's answer is a slow, thoughtful smile.</p><p>They drink copious amounts of the Assam, and he tells John all about his current projects and the things his team has gleaned from Entierros data they hadn't had time to analyse on board. As usual, many of his detailed technical explanations go way over John's head, but he can't help grinning at the enthusiasm which has finally derailed Sherlock's apprehension at his presence. Unsurprisingly, against the backdrop of his admission in the cab, Sherlock looks tired, a bit washed-out. Some of the reserve which had coloured their early interactions has returned. These last months have clearly taken a toll, and the last thing John wants is to add to that.</p><p>  </p><p>________________</p><p> </p><p>"That was beautiful."</p><p>Sherlock lowers his bow. "Passable. I haven't rehearsed much in the last year; I've been meaning to pick up my routine again. I like to keep my Bach repertoire polished."</p><p>"You've been playing since you were a kid?"</p><p>"I took lessons for ten years as a child, yes."</p><p>Sherlock gently places his violin inside a padded case and packs it away. He then joins John on the couch."I put your things in the guest bedroom," he announces.</p><p>"Right." The question lingers on the tip of John's tongue: <em>don't you want me in yours? </em>He reminds himself that what he wants might not be the best thing right now, because that may not be what Sherlock wants yet. That settles the longing in John's chest to pull Sherlock close right now.</p><p>"Unfortunately, it also serves as my office and storage space, so there is no bed." Sherlock says pointedly.</p><p>"I'll be fine on the sofa," John says, perhaps a bit more pointedly than he'd intended.</p><p>"Oh." Sherlock tries to school his features into nonchalance, but the brief crestfallen expression does not escape John's notice. "If that's what you want. I did change the sheets in mine."</p><p>"Of course, that's not what I want. I just… I thought you'd want to take things slowly, maybe."</p><p>Sherlock held his face carefully blank for a moment before a slow smile crept over his face."I've never shared my bed here." He doesn't sound dismissive of the concept, just thoughtful.</p><p>"James never slept over, then?"</p><p>"The place wasn't to his liking. Downmarket, he would sneer. When we spent time together, it was at his place in London or in a hotel suite."</p><p>Anger rises in John. Yet another example of how that bloody bastard had not really wanted Sherlock, but something he could dominate and shape to his liking. <em>Why? </em><em>Just because he could?</em> <em>Was it just some bloody mind game?</em></p><p>"I don't want you to change a single thing," John announces, places a hand on Sherlock's knee and gives it a pat.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>," Sherlock suddenly says, springs to his feet and disappears in the direction of his bedroom. John hears a thump and a shuffle before Sherlock returns.</p><p>"Just a bit of tidying up, loose ends, you know how it is," Sherlock explains. He looks a bit flushed.</p><p>"I… guess?" John suggests. </p><p>They both reach for the wine bottle on the table almost simultaneously, and John's hand ends up covering Sherlock's on it. He does a quick, short inhale, but does not pull away. Instead, he meets John's eyes, the look in his own inquisitive, expectant.</p><p>The sudden proximity makes John's head swim, halts all conscious thought. <em>God, I missed you</em>.</p><p>"Can I…" John starts, removes his hand from the bottle as he twists his torso so that they are facing each other fully. He gently places his palm on Sherlock's cheek, "…may I kiss you?"</p><p>Sherlock responds by leaning forward and closing his eyes, and John goes for what he'd fantasized about so many times, sitting alone on the moonlit top deck of the liveaboard yacht. Sherlock's lips are soft and warm and dry, and they mould against John's so perfectly. John is careful not to use his tongue and to avoid teeth clashing. The chasteness of the kiss seems to underline its newness and carefulness. There's a humming hitch of a breath as Sherlock leans even closer, tilting his head so he can trap a bit of John's upper lip between his own. They're balancing between sensual and heated, and with anyone else John would take what's going on as a sign to take things further rather quickly. But with Sherlock, John wants to go slower, to relish every bit of what they're doing, instead of rushing through it. This isn't just going through the motions to seek permission for sex. For Sherlock, this just might be the end of the line of what he wants, and John wants to be mindful of how intense that must make the experience of kissing someone.</p><p>They open their eyes at the same time, drift apart but their arms remain around one another — <em>when did that happen?</em>" I didn't know if you liked doing that," John says.</p><p>"I will tell you if I don't like something," Sherlock recites. It's a promise he's made many times.</p><p>"I didn't know if you and he––" John starts explaining but then regrets it when Sherlock's hands drop to his side and he steps back.</p><p>"You've been here not half a day and you've already mentioned him so many times."</p><p>"I'm sorry. Sherlock, I am. I just want you to be comfortable. I want this to be okay."</p><p>"I'll <em>tell you if it isn't</em>." Sherlock sounds irritated, now. "I don't know why you won't believe me."</p><p><em>Because you either didn't tell James, or he didn't listen to you, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you. Will it ever stop? </em>John wonders. <em>Will you ever stop treating me with a mixture of fear and annoyance when I just need to check with you that what we're doing isn't making you uncomfortable?</em></p><p>Sherlock had spoken to him on Malta about checking out when he was with James, about retreating into what he described as his Mind Palace — a memory structure into which he could escape James' attention."<em>One day, he broke in. Suddenly, I found him everywhere, and the walls were breaking, stairwells twisting. I couldn't keep him out any longer. He was in my head, constantly. And that's when I had to get out, even if just for a while. The timing for the Entierros was serendipitous.</em>"</p><p>"<em>In more ways than one</em>," John had joked gently, then bit his lip as he saw that the humour was not reflected back at him on his lover's features. "<em>Sorry. Didn't mean to make light of that. I don't even want you to feel like you need to check out with me.</em>"</p><p>Sherlock had closed his eyes, but John could sense they both lay awake for hours after. He knew Sherlock was likely thinking of James, just like he must be, now.</p><p>"I don't need you to keep reminding me of him," Sherlock tells him. He's retreated a bit towards the opposite end of the sofa, picked up a pillow and arranged it on his lap like a shield.</p><p>John's heart is heavy, and he wants to strangle James Moriarty with his bare hands. <em>He was in your bed and in your body, and I have no idea how long it'll take to evict him.</em></p><p><br/>
______________</p><p> </p><p>Two hours later, their cheeks are warm from the wine and then bellies full from Chinese takeaway. Yawns are splitting their cheeks at an alarming rate, so it's time for bed. Sherlock goes to get John a towel from a cupboard in the hall while John enters Sherlock's bedroom and walks to the antique four-poster double bed to turn over the covers.</p><p>Standing by the bedframe, his toes come across something underneath it. He leans down to see. </p><p>It's a blanket shoved underneath the bed. He starts pulling it out and is surprised by the weight. Small, round, weighted things seem to have been sewn into the duvet. John realises this may well have been the thump he'd heard earlier. <em>Why'd he hide this? </em>He pats dust off the weighted blanket and spreads it onto the foot of the bed, hoping this will signal without calling Sherlock out that it's fine. <em>It's all fine, whatever you need</em>.</p><p>"What are you doing?" Sherlock is in the doorway, clutching a rolled-up towel, eyes narrowed and defensive.</p><p>John pivots on his heel. "Can I try it, too? I've heard they're great for sleep."</p><p>"I don't see why it would do anything for you. The bathroom's free."</p><p><br/>
______________<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
Half an hour later, they're under the covers with the lights out, listening to the other breathing. John feels suspended in apprehension, completely at a loss how to cross the mere inches of bed separating them. <em>Might as well be a bloody ocean. </em>Through the shower curtain, John had heard the tell-tale beep of the blood glucose meter and the clicking of an insulin pen. He'd been glad that Sherlock doesn't feel the need to step out of the bathroom to do those things, even if he seems very private and careful about everything else.</p><p>"I took a few days off. Thought I'd show you the Centre tomorrow," Sherlock tells the ceiling. His eyes are open, and in the dim moonlight streaming through the half-closed curtains they look dark and colourless.</p><p>"Sounds good." John grits his teeth. He wants even more desperately to cross the expanse of the bed, wants to reach out. Instead, he thinks about the double bolt locks on the front door and the back door. <em>Did Sherlock have them installed, and is it because of James?</em></p><p>"I have no plans after that," Sherlock adds.</p><p>"Maybe we don't need any? We'll just make it up as we go along?" <em>Just like I'm trying to do right now.</em></p><p>Silence. An exhalation. "John."</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>Sheets rustle and the wooden frame creaks a bit as Sherlock shifts closer, shoves a leg between John's, drapes an arm across his waist, scoots downwards so that he can press his face against John's chest. Sherlock reaches down to pull the weighted blanket over them up to his neck; it's warm and heavy, a cocoon sealing them off from the world. John strokes his shoulder underneath the covers, wondering if it's his thrumming heartbeat Sherlock is focusing on. There's an urgency, a need in how Sherlock clings to him — as though he'd finally given in to the desire to do so.</p><p><em>There are many kinds of desires. </em>The one John feels right now has little to do with sex and shouldn't be very different from Sherlock's. John wants them to meld to each other, to wake up safe and close and warm like this. Had Sherlock's earlier nervousness been an internal struggle about whether he wanted or should do this, or was it just an amalgamation of many anxieties difficult to pick apart?</p><p><em>"Can we… just this?" </em>Sherlock had asked him on Malta. He had seemed so frustrated even before hearing John's answer. Sherlock always seemed to assume that the things he wanted or didn't want would require others to make big compromises on his behalf.</p><p><em>How do I convince him this is all I want right now, too? </em>John wonders, revelling in the fact that, after months of waiting, Sherlock is in his arms, warm and alive, bare skin against bare skin. <em>This isn't a fucking compromise.</em></p><p>Sherlock shifts under the covers. "I had to wait until I could be reasonably sure he was gone for good until I invited you here. I didn't want you targeted or tainted by him. Didn't want to walk around Oxford imagining a proverbial dot from a sniper's laser sight on you. Didn't want to have to worry whether you'd decide it wasn't worth the trouble."</p><p><em>In other words, whether I'd decide you weren't worth the trouble? </em>John translates in his head. "How do you know he's gone?"</p><p>"Formal criminal charges have been filed against him and my brother's sources say he's gone to Bahrain. They have no extradition treaty with the UK; going there means he's worried about having to stand trial. He hasn't contacted me since I left for Malta. I can't be sure he never will, but for now, he's gone."</p><p>"Is there a restraining order?"</p><p>"Yes, though I'm not sure they were ever able to serve him the notice. I'm sure he knows, though. He has his sources; he would have followed the proceedings very carefully."</p><p>"For what it's worth, <em>I</em> definitely like your flat," John tells the curls underneath his chin quietly. "It's very you."</p><p>"Never made any conscious effort with interior decoration," Sherlock mutters.</p><p>"Your plant's dying, though."</p><p>"What plant?"</p><p>"Looks like a ficus?"</p><p>"The former tenants left it here."</p><p>All John has in terms of houseplants are a few cactuses. He rarely forgets to water them, either, but they are a very forgiving sort. He snuffs out the questions forming in his mind about the future: <em>will you continue to live here? Where will I live? Do we live together? Where will I work?</em> For a man who has prided himself in living in the moment, Sherlock has made him awfully and oddly concerned about plans.</p><p><em>We don't have to make any right now,</em> John assures himself.<em> I'm here. With Sherlock. That's enough. More than enough.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><i>“In spite of Keble College, and the tramways, and the sporting prints, Oxford still remains the most beautiful thing in England, and nowhere else are life and art so exquisitely blended, so perfectly made one.”</i> —Oscar Wilde</p><p>My beta team for this was the same as for Thermocline. Much obliged.</p><p>Chapter 2/2 will appear sometime next week. Don't forget that tomorrow, on Monday the 17th February, the podfic by Podfixx for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/18826798"><i>Proving A Point</i></a> will launch!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Not A Compromise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's an unsettling mix of wonderful and frightening to watch Sherlock slip into his work persona at the Centre. On their expedition, the boundary between that and the real him had blurred as the cracks begun to show, but now, with Moriarty gone, the second they walk in the doors, walls slam up, a chin juts up just a little bit higher, and the <em>professor</em> is in the building. </p><p>The contrast between that and the way he behaves in the privacy of his flat makes John realise the depth of the thespian's skills required to keep up such a facade even when things had been at their most difficult.</p><p>The Centre is relatively small, housed at Hayes House, also known as the George Institute. A low red-brick building on George Street, it does not carry the splendour of the colleges Oxford is famous for. Sherlock's large office overlooks the street and is filled with the same creative clutter John had expected based on his flat. He shows John more of his work, including some mouth-watering new 3D renderings of Entierros wrecks which they had only scanned and not dived. John greets and exchanges a few words with Andrew and Morten; Joseph works elsewhere. Andrew is well on his way to finishing his PhD, Morten is getting there, too.</p><p>"How have things been lately?" John asks Andrew after an Institute secretary had ashed Sherlock to sign some papers in her office. The PhD student had escorted John to the break room and given him a mug of tea.</p><p>"Better, I guess, after the storm died down. Wasn't easy, fending off the press when Sherlock wasn't here, but I get it, I understand why he left. Nobody knew–– I mean, I'd spotted some stuff; I thought the foundation CEO he was dating was a bit barmy, but we had no idea…" Andrew shakes his head. "When he got back from wherever he went, it was straight back down to business. His drive is back, I think. It was like whatever was distracting him being gone — well, we now know what it was — has brought things back to, if not the old normal, then a new one."</p><p><em>Wherever he went. </em>It appears Sherlock had been protective enough of John to not even tell Andrew about Malta.</p><p>"So, are you here for some work, or…?"</p><p><em>Oh, fuck</em>. They hadn't discussed what to say if someone asked questions about their relationship. Would Sherlock want to keep it private? It wasn't so very outlandish an idea that John would pop by if he happened to be in the area.</p><p>"He's staying with me," Sherlock cuts in. "He's with me."</p><p>"Oh," Andrew says and John can't tell whether the penny's really dropped. <em>Does it matter?</em></p><p>"Lunch, John?" Sherlock then asks.</p><p>"Starving."</p><p> </p><p>______________</p><p> </p><p>The next day, after drying himself and putting his clothes back on after a shower, John chucks his towel into the wash and searches the tall bathroom cabinet for a new one. There are none, but he does find two new packets of prescription drugs obviously hidden away behind some toilet rolls. It's the antidepressants Sherlock had been taking on the boat, and a new double blister packet of benzos. They're pharmacy-dated the day before John's arrival. Only two have been taken from the blister packet, and the antidepressant is unopened.</p><p><em>I'm not his doctor</em>, John reminds himself. <em>But then again, even on the boat, that duty was self-appointed</em>. He doesn't like the idea that Sherlock had felt the need to hide this from him.</p><p>He takes the packets to the kitchen where Sherlock is arranging sandwiches they'd picked up from a cafe on their walk onto a plate.</p><p>"I hope you have a plan how to taper these off to avoid side effects?" <em>He seemed so nervous that first day. Had he taken one of the alprazolam that day?</em></p><p>"I had already begun taking just a half of the mirtazapine. Felt no need to open that packet. As for the other ones, I find that your presence has quite the same effect."</p><p><br/>
_____________</p><p> </p><p>Their half a day at the BBC headquarters starts with a reunion between John and Bridgette, who gets near-screechingly enthusiastic about seeing him. She meets them at the entrance and helps them sign themselves in. Sherlock raises a brow at the tone of their banter, and John finds he doesn't feel like engaging with her on the old level of their flirty humour. At one point, Bridgette seems to pick up on something, and a devious smile spreads on her features the minute Sherlock excuses himself to go to the gents before the start of the meeting proper in a fifth-floor conference room. It's just John and her in there, now; the rest of the attendees, who will include the Head of Content, have yet to arrive.</p><p>"So," Bridgette starts, "special request, eh?"</p><p>"Excuse me?" John is pouring himself a glass of water.</p><p>She cocks her head towards the door, through which Sherlock has just disappeared. "Him, requesting you specifically. Five Oceans Watson still leaving a trail of cooling corpses in your wake, then?" She teases. "Or is he still a work-in-progress?"</p><p>The way she's talking about Sherlock angers John, while at the same time he feels a bit guilty that she'd label herself as a 'cooling corpse' left in his wake. He isn't quite sure what to do with the resulting irritation.</p><p>"It's not like that. Not that it's anybody's business what it is, anyway."</p><p>"Getting <em>defensive</em>, are we? Ooh, this is going to be good. So, you're actually…? He's…? Oh my <em>God</em>," she chuckles. "I knew it would have to happen eventually."</p><p>John leans back, crosses his arms. "I'll bite. What would happen eventually?"</p><p>"John Watson, <em>in love</em>. You even opened the door for him, hand on the small of his back'n'all. A girl notices these things, seeing as you never did any of it for me after I chucked off my knickers."</p><p>John opens his mouth to protest, but she raises a hand. "I'm <em>glad</em>, John. I'm happy you've joined us mortals, because you never were a bad bloke. Wouldn't have put up with you otherwise. Nah," she ponders, watching Sherlock striding back along the corridor, "at least you have taste when you decide to fall for it. We had some fun, you and I, and neither of us was looking for more. Hadn't the faintest what you <em>were</em> looking for, if anything. I can now see it was no less than a professor."</p><p>The door in the plexiglass wall opens, and Sherlock follows five other people back into the room.</p><p>Two hours later, there is a plan for a larger documentary crew to return to the Entierros to film the summer-long excavations of the Drake ship and to film other wrecks. John will be the diving lead for it, and the head of the excavation project — who will <em>personally </em>oversee the proceedings and the use of drones to survey wrecks not identified or explored on their prior trip — will be Sherlock.</p><p><em>An entire summer together,</em> John thinks. <em>Could be romantic.</em></p><p> </p><p>_____________</p><p> </p><p>That night, much of the awkwardness is gone. Sherlock appears used to John moving in the space of the flat; he no longer stops to frown at the sight of John touching his things.</p><p><em>He's just not used to anyone being here</em>, John reasons.</p><p>"The endocrinologist you referred me to doesn't think I can be without insulin," Sherlock muses in the dark. They're lying next to each other, weighted blanket and top sheet pulled up to their chests. John is wearing just his underwear to bed and Sherlock had stripped down to his pants all the same, perhaps assuming John was demonstrating the proper way to do things. "That part of my pancreas has given up the ghost."</p><p>"But you have no insulin resistance, I assume?"</p><p>"None at all. The tiniest doses are often enough if I don't take care to eat enough. We've circled through Tresiba, Levemir and Lantus and none of them are any better or any worse than the other insulins I've been on. A pump has been suggested, but some of the benefits are lost since I don't need postprandial doses of short-acting insulin."</p><p>John hums affirmatively. It appears this is a lead-up to something, and he has a hunch what. "And the hypo symptoms?"</p><p>"It appears that my particular tragedy is that I cannot be without insulin, nor can I inject it in a manner that wouldn't cause a constant risk of mild hypo. Since I'm accustomed to that, symptoms can be deceptively mild."</p><p>John understands what this means. "No diving, then. I'm sorry, Sherlock." Without hypo symptoms Sherlock is aware of, even regular scuba diving is impossible. <em>Too risky</em>.</p><p>"Save your condolences. Unless you have a functioning pancreas and a surgical kit in your duffel bag, it's no point in discussing this further." Sherlock's tone is biting, but it's not directed at John.</p><p>"Come here," John prompts softly, spreads his arm towards Sherlock, who instantly scoots closer, rests his head on John's shoulder. John has to push away some of his curls since they threaten to end up on his lips, and that tickles.</p><p>Sherlock slides his warm palm onto John's bare chest under the sheet, splays his fingers. His thumb ghosts over John's nipple in the process. He continues stroking down the plane on John's abdominal muscles, then towards his flank, finally resting on his hipbone. His finger hooks underneath the waist of John's boxers. "Can we…"</p><p>He suddenly removes his hand, slumps back onto his back, shoves his own pants off and repositions himself so that his naked form, lying on his side, is coiled around John with a leg flung over knees and an arm across a waist.</p><p>John's brows hitch up as he lifts his head to survey this sudden, strange development. "Um… Sherlock?"</p><p>"Off," Sherlock mutters and snaps the elastic waistband of John's boxers.</p><p>"But what are you doing? What are <em>we</em> doing?"</p><p>"I like this. You're warm. Clothes are unnecessary." Simple, razor-sharp sherlockian logic.</p><p>"I know you know I won't read too much into this," John reminds him, still puzzled, but wanting to be sure Sherlock understands that naked contact may lead to physiological reactions he can’t control.</p><p>Sherlock flaps a noncommittal wrist at him, burying his nose between John's shoulder and neck. "I don't mind if you get aroused."</p><p>"You don't… mind?"</p><p>"I'm not sex-<em>repulsed</em>, though I don't desire it. I've had it, it doesn't alarm me. I wouldn't mind being included if it's you. I will participate within my boundaries, whatever those turn out to be."</p><p>John decides he needs to trust Sherlock — to believe he's telling the truth when he says he's not alarmed by their nudity or their closeness, or by John's physical reactions. He trusts that Sherlock will tell him where the line is, should he get close to crossing it. John has lain awake countless nightly hours in his flat on Malta wondering about the questions which now return full force: where is the line? What will Sherlock enjoy, what will he tolerate, and what will put him off?</p><p>Is sex not a seamless thing from the first touch to the last orgasm? Who draws the line between sensual and sexual, and what happens when that boundary is enforced?</p><p>
  <em>Will I ever feel dirty and judged by him if I want him not just for cuddling?</em>
</p><p>He rests his hand where Sherlock's bare buttock meets his lower back. "You never answered my question about kissing."</p><p>"I had never spared it much thought. I liked it with you, though I'd prefer to keep tongues out of the proceedings. Wet and sloppy is not my idea of romance."</p><p>"Believe me, it's also not mine. What don't you like?" John asks and tries to will his trilling heart to calm as he feels Sherlock's naked form press closer. He's not hard, but the enthusiasm with which he is plastering himself against John could easily be mistaken for desire.</p><p>"I particularly hate my prostate being messed with.  As a rule, I don't masturbate so no direct attention to my cock. Despite excessive experimentation to prove the opposite, pain and humiliation does not arouse me, either."</p><p>John tenses. He doesn’t like what that suggests."What does that mean?" He asks. It's easier to talk in the dark. This is the most frank conversation he's ever had about sex. With his changing rota of partners, it has always been more about doing than talking.</p><p>"It means that James' theory was wrong. Experiencing discomfort bordering on pain and profound disinterest towards what people usually do naked in bed is <em>not</em> a sign that I just hadn't discovered my penchant for bondage and pain play."</p><p>John <em>is</em> hard, now — not because of what they are discussing but because Sherlock smells like heaven, feels like marble resurrected to life and he's alive and pressed against John and he'd be fool not to notice. "I'm not into that stuff."</p><p>"You don't have to keep making such statements to prove you are respectful and interested in reciprocity."</p><p>"No, that's not what I–– I have hard limits, too, stuff I'm not interested in. That's all I was trying to say."</p><p>"Oh. I assumed with your track record that your appetite was varied."</p><p>"Nope. You'd be surprised, probably." John has certainly <em>tried</em>many things, but Sherlock would probably laugh if he knew how vanilla most of his encounters, especially with women, have been. "So, when you… wank––" John starts and grits his teeth. <em>God, this is difficult</em>. "––it doesn't feel good?" <em>You idiot. Didn't he just say he generally never does it?</em></p><p>"I just wish it were over. Imagine a sneeze that won't come. Wouldn't you rather you stopped feeling like that instead of prolonging it and then making a mess all over yourself?"</p><p>"That's… I have to admit that's not the worst comparison, but imagine when that perfect sneeze finally comes — doesn't it feel great?"</p><p>"I liked kissing you. I didn't expect that. I like being close like this; clothes are a nuisance, anyway. Nothing in me is aching for more, though."</p><p>He had closed his eyes a moment prior but now, he opens then, lifts his head a bit and scrutinises John's penis. "And before you manage to string the spluttery words together to ask: now, I wouldn't mind in the slightest if you decide to do something about that. I want to see and know everything about you, John. Including what you look and sound like when––" </p><p>"Alright, al<em>right</em>!"</p><p>Sherlock arranges an elbow half under John's pillow so that he can lean his cheek on his palm. He looks expectant.</p><p>John's hands are by his sides, fingers nervously thrumming the mattress. He feels terribly exposed. "You… um… you want me to…?"</p><p>Sherlock leans forward a bit so he can kiss John's shoulder. It's a chaste peck, but cannot be mistaken for anything but encouragement. "Have you ever thought of me while doing it?"</p><p>"Loads of times." <em>All the bloody time</em>.</p><p>"I'm right here, now. Shouldn't it be much better than just your thoughts?"</p><p>"Of course it is, but…" <em>But this is odd, you just watching me without any intention of joining in?</em></p><p>At least his cock isn't having such an emotional conundrum. It's jutting up proudly towards his bellybutton, ready for anything.</p><p>"Hearing you is… that's what all that fanmail has to be about," He gasps as Sherlock's palm presses against his shaft, "I could get off even just listening to you read the bloody phone book."He tries to steal a covert glance at Sherlock's cock, but is caught by the man who sees and notices everything.</p><p>"It's not dysfunctional, John; it's just wholly uninterested in you."</p><p>"Not very flattering, is that?"</p><p>"It's uninterested in <em>anyone</em>. And it's not your fault. I, however, am very interested in you. And I assure you I can appreciate and enjoy what you'd be willing to share. I might want to…"</p><p>He slips his hand onto John's balls and John tries not to clench his thighs together reflexively. "I told you. I'm not <em>averse</em>, which should serve you fine. I think I might enjoy doing things to you once we find out sea legs with this relationship thing."</p><p><em>Don't think about his mouth around your cock, just don't–– </em>"Oh God," John groans, and decides to throw caution to the wind. Their wrists collide as he grips his now painfully hard shaft and gives the foreskin a tug upwards just so it slides tight and smooth over his glans. The feeling of Sherlock's long fingers not squeezing but just gripping his balls is unexpected in how much it adds to the sensation; not many women he's been with have been keen on playing with them and guys, well, he's usually topped or it's just been about a blowjob and those encounters have often been quick and effective and he doesn't quite remember anyone ever <em>revelling </em>in his testicles the way Sherlock is doing right now, running a finger down the soft seam on the sack, resting the weight of them on his palm. A wickedly inquisitive smile is curving up the edge of his mouth as he watches John's reactions.</p><p>"Don't–– tease––" John groans as Sherlock keeps his grip just so that the pressure won't recede, but won't build, either. <em>How's he so good at this if he never does it? Is it because he's paying more attention since he isn't hard?</em></p><p>John throws his head back as Sherlock's hand shoves his own aside and grips his cock. After a few tentative strokes he picks up speed and his other palm shifts to John's belly, fingers splayed to feel as his muscles clench as he nears orgasm. John marvels at how he can be so close so soon. Granted, he's fantasized about something like this — well, not precisely this, but <em>something</em> — for ages with Sherlock, but those fantasies have been just haphazard, half-hearted wanking material since he assumed none of it would ever turn to reality.</p><p>"Let me...” John pleads, and Sherlock lets him take over again. ”Can you…" he rasps, "Just… do that thing again. <em>Please</em>." <em>Christ, I'm already begging. This could be good. This could work.</em></p><p>Sherlock slides his hand down his groin, gathers his balls with his forefinger and middle finger pressing just a bit behind them on the perineum.</p><p>John grimaces and gasps as the pressure builds and breaks like a wave crashing against a lighthouse. His grip loosens as his other hand’s shaking fingers coil into a fist as he comes on Sherlock's hand on his lower stomach. It stays there even after his other hand loosens its grip around John's cock.</p><p>He takes a moment before prying his eyes open. Sherlock has thrown himself onto his back, now, reaching to the bedside cabinet for some tissues. He gracefully cleans his fingers, then gives John a wad of them. The look on his face is patient, yet also slightly smug as he waits for John to make himself decent again.</p><p>Sherlock arranges himself into sitting cross-legged, soft penis resting on his ankle. "The Hilti Foundation has sponsored a part-time position of excavation safety consultant and I want you to take it."</p><p>John blinks. Frowns. Stares. "What?"</p><p>"Caught with their trousers around their ankles with their abysmal taste in picking CEOs, it appears they have adopted a rather charitable attitude towards the Centre and sponsored two five-year positions, one for a new PhD student and another for a diving specialist who would help plan and oversee underwater excavations."</p><p>"No, Sherlock, that's not–– I mean, that's great, but I just came on you and you're offering me the job? What the <em>hell</em>?"</p><p>"Why do those things need to be in any way connected?"</p><p>"The timing of your offer is too insane for them to not be connected!"</p><p>Sherlock purses his lips, looks down at the mattress.</p><p>When the penny drops, John's smile is incredulous and a bit cold. "This was an experiment. You were <em>testing </em>me! First, you invited me here, then we went to the Centre, then the meeting, then this before you spring a job offer on me which would tie us together semi-permanently, give me a reason to spend quite a lot of time here. I feel like I was auditioning for something without knowing."</p><p>"No, John! It's the other way around — I was testing <em>myself</em>. I was hardly going to offer you the job if this visit turned out to be a disaster. How could I know, without seeing you in these surroundings, how we'd behave out of the strange comfort zone of the boat, or our limited time on Malta, whether I could tolerate a housemate, how we'd react to each other's presence here, and how I'd feel about–– after James––"</p><p>"Well? Is there a final verdict?"</p><p>"I feared that being with you, going beyond just closeness, things becoming arousing for you would put me off in a way I would doubt this relationship would survive. But instead, I enjoyed it. Can't wait to see more. I want to see you enjoy yourself; I found the whole thing fascinating, if not titillating. I'm sorry if it makes you awkward and self-conscious that I won't necessarily wish for reciprocity, but I do wish to be a part of that in your life within my own boundaries. If you'll let me. If you'll… <em>have </em>me. Just not <em>have</em>, I didn't mean––"</p><p>John takes his hand. "I know what you meant. We'll work it out. I hope. It <em>was </em>awkward, but maybe that's a good awkward — if that makes any sense. It felt more intimate than what you called reciprocity. Your attention is just so… focused. I don't want to feel like a specimen, so maybe there's so tweaking to do about you participating up to a point, but if you liked that…"</p><p>"Very much. And I don't want to frustrate you, or for sex to become a wedge between us."</p><p>"I'll be honest: at some point, I might feel that things are a bit one-sided, and I might worry that you're crossing your soft or even hard limits because you think that's what I expect. I'll be honest with you, but I need the same honesty in return. If you do something just for me that you don't like and I find out, we're going to have a problem."</p><p>"Alright."</p><p>"That, just now, that was awkward."</p><p>"Oh." Sherlock looks crestfallen.</p><p>John, however, looks determined. "It was also pretty fucking great. How the hell do you even do it — make me feel like I'm fifteen again and copping my first feel? I'll start with the honesty right now. At some point, I might get frustrated with you. Make that many times. It might grate on my confidence that I can't give you what you just gave me, so you'll have to do a lot of convincing that what we do is enough for you."</p><p>"<em>John</em>." Sherlock's tone as he interrupts his lover is almost angry. Almost. "What we have is more than I could ever have hoped for. I always thought no compromise could ever be found, that either I’d have nothing, or I'd have to make the deal I made with James — to tolerate things in exchange for a relationship."</p><p>"It's not any sort of a sane relationship if you hurt the other person like that," John growls.</p><p>Sherlock drops back down onto the bed, and they turn to their sides, facing each other. Their fingers find each other and entwine between them, in the no-man's land of empty white sheet.</p><p>"I know that. I accept that, now, after you have demonstrated other things could be possible. Calling this enough, John, is desecration. Calling it perfect would be an understatement. I was anxious because I worried my memories of being with you on Malta had been gilded by time. I feared it wouldn't be the same."</p><p>"But it is."</p><p>"Yes. Will you take the job?"</p><p>"It would make you the boss of me. Convenient."</p><p>"You'd have about six months every year for other engagements. You may keep your apartment on Malta if you need to."</p><p>"I <em>may</em>?" John chuckles. "Thank you, Your Highness."</p><p>"And when you are working and we're not on location anywhere, this flat and this bed and its owner are yours. Acceptable?"</p><p>"Perfect."</p><p>"Good. This place needs someone to whom it occasionally occurs to tidy things up."</p><p>"Oi! I'm your <em>diving specialist</em>, not your housekeeper." He kisses Sherlock right on the nose. "Besides, housekeepers don't have the perks I'll get, such as having the professor in my bed."</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— The End —<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for loving these idiots in wetsuits. We shall now leave them to their… um… business.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>